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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27902212">portrait of two antique gentlemen accompanied by dead bodies (var, unsp)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrelevant/pseuds/irrelevant'>irrelevant</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Nicky being at least 12cm taller than joe never fails to amuse me, comics canon, i have an incurable disease, issue tag, no film canon, this one’s called pathological sarcasm, tog: opening fire, well several, yes i’m easily amused why do you ask</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 17:53:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,432</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27902212</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrelevant/pseuds/irrelevant</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>the Armoured Car: an afterword</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>103</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>portrait of two antique gentlemen accompanied by dead bodies (var, unsp)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>so the Speech™️ is serious, but at the same time it’s a deliberate goad.  it’s also embarrassing as fuck, as is any over the top romantic declaration worth its salt.  which is exactly what Joe was going for.</p><p>Nicky?  has been similarly embarrassed many times over the years.  what’s one more?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He snaps his assailant’s neck with a twist of his knees and kicks the body away, unbalancing himself in the process.  He lands badly: half on his side, half on his cuffed arms.  Pain stabs up his right arm from his hand.  When he tries to straighten his fingers, his entire arm spasms in reaction.  His thumb and forefinger are dislocated; he can’t move his ring finger, either.</p><p>The metronome beat of Joe’s breathing comes from behind him, still double time, but slowing.  There’s no other movement in the compartment.</p><p>Nicky struggles up onto his knees before pushing himself the rest of the way upright.  He twists himself round, tries to get a look at his hands to little effect.  He can’t see anything beyond the healing scrapes on his arms, and bulky metal cuffs with electronic locks.  There’s some blood, though not much, and not much of it his.  Typical result for a close-quarters skirmish without knives.</p><p>For some reason, he keeps picturing the cover art from the last novel Joe read.  An improbable story, some sort of sci-fi/action/romance travesty.  Joe picked it up in an aeroport and read bits of it out for Nicky to laugh at.  And Nicky had laughed, but apparently his subconscious had been taking notes for future reference while the rest of him was laughing at Joe’s antics.  He thinks now, as he looks down at the bodies surrounding him, that too many fiction writers make artistic sagas out of battles that in reality last thirty seconds at most.  This one would’ve ended both of them in under twenty had they not made the first ten count.</p><p>It’s as well they’re not living in a novel.  If the specs of this fight had been left to the author of the travesty, they’d still be fighting.</p><p>Artistically.</p><p>‘I suppose you couldn’t resist,’ Nicky says in the Romanesco they reserve mostly for public use.  He drops down on one of the bench seats, wincing as a torn muscle in his neck finishes healing at the same time his thumb snaps back into place.</p><p>Joe throws a grin over his shoulder from where he’s knelt down, picking awkwardly through their erstwhile guards’ pockets and gear.  ‘You saw their faces.  How could I disappoint such an appreciative audience?’</p><p>Nicky crooks an eyebrow.</p><p>Joe laughs.  ‘Modern day homophobes are more fun than the Victorians and Edwardians combined.’</p><p>‘Don’t remind me.  At least a quarter of my current trauma is related.’  Nicky rubs his eyes against his shoulder, clearing them of the tears and mucous brought on by some irritant in the knockout gas.  They still hurt, and so does his brain.  Of course, the pain in his head isn’t all the fault of the gas.  ‘Was it off the cuff, or were you saving it up?’</p><p>‘Mm?’ Joe says.  He glances up from his search and is met by Nicky’s inquiring look.  ‘Ah, both?  A riff on the day and night theme.’  Nicky’s face must appear as blank as his head feels; Joe gives him a disappointed look.  ‘Auckland, babe.  ‘69?  God preserve us, we went with Andy.’</p><p>‘....when Book was still in Krung Thep.  Not our wisest decision,’ Nicky agrees.  ‘If the Lord wouldn’t grant me oblivion then, surely Satan won’t now.’</p><p>Joe snickers and goes back to his search.</p><p>Nicky slides down off the bench and stretches out on the floor, making himself as comfortable as he can with dead bodies everywhere and his hands cuffed behind him.  He closes his eyes, blocking out the car’s internal lights.  They feel more like lucent drills boring into his skull than illumination.  His body has never thrown off manmade chemicals with the ease that Joe’s does.  He heals, the effects fade, but the pain lingers, manifesting in the form of migraines that arrive without leave and hang about like unwelcome guests for days on end.</p><p>‘Shit,’ Joe says.  For the first time since Nicky surfaced in this moving prison, he sounds more weary than pissed off.  ‘I hate these assholes more than the last ones.  No, I hate this.  End of story.’</p><p>‘Must be a terrible story if you’re closing the book already.’  Nicky slits his eyes, lifts his head just enough that he can see him standing upright if hunched over in the middle of the car, trying to get a look at the cuffs holding his arms behind him.  ‘No cutting edges?’ he hazards.</p><p>‘No remote key for these, either,’ Joe jiggles his wrists.</p><p>‘Any of them have a phone?’ Nicky asks.  ‘I might be able to trigger a passcode reset.’</p><p>Joe shakes his head.  ‘Nothing aside from those.’  He jerks his chin at one showy, overall worthless semi-automatic, then grimaces and turns his head side to side until his neck cracks.  Some of the tension goes out of his shoulders; he slumps.</p><p>Nicky’s bones ache in sympathy.  He wonders if Joe’s reached the same conclusion he has.  Probably.  Joe’s always been the most emotionally intelligent, the most intelligent overall out of all of them, Booker’s cleverness with tech notwithstanding.</p><p>‘Whoever these guys are, they’ve got some idea who they’re dealing with,’ Joe says, still on that tired note.  ‘Maybe not a clear one, but an idea.  Right now I’d trade Andy’s soul in for a box cutter,’ he says on a sigh.</p><p>Nicky chokes on laughter.  ‘No good,’ he manages.  ‘’Riko always did say she traded it away millennia ago for a few bottles of cheap liquor.’</p><p>Joe’s grinning.  ‘Nah, man,’ he says in horrendous West Coast US English, ‘it was weed, not booze.  She was Scythia before Scythia was Scythia, and they were all about the cannabis seed sauna experience.’</p><p>It’s good to laugh, incipient migraine or not.  After all that’s happened, before all that’s sure to come, there’s nothing better than the kick of endorphins flooding his bloodstream to the sound of Joe’s laughter.  And Joe himself, dropped down to sit beside Nicky, his cuffed hands extended as best he can.  Offered just as he first offered a hand so long ago.</p><p>Nicky pushes himself up to sit.  He reaches without the reluctance he’d felt back then, and twines their fingers clumsily together.  Strokes his healed thumb over the backs of Joe’s healed but still bloody knuckles.</p><p>‘A passion they will never know,’ he murmurs, zeneize so archaic none but the two of them understand it now.  ‘Your taste in twelfth century poetry is as florid as your taste in modern fiction.  And almost as warped as your sense of humour.’</p><p>‘Hey,’ Joe takes exaggerated offense, ‘that was <i>my</i> twelfth century poetry.’</p><p>‘I know,’ Nicky says, wry.  ‘Are you sure there wasn’t some other, even more inflammatory language you could’ve used?’</p><p>Joe laughs, then groans when the laughter jars something that must still hurt.  He leans into Nicky, settling in against his shoulder.  ‘You know I’m not at my best when I’m rushed,’ he says.</p><p>‘Liar,’ Nicky snorts.  ‘You’re better at improv than-’</p><p>He cuts himself off.  Swallows Booker’s name and rests his cheek against Joe’s hair.</p><p>The thick waves are disheveled, knotted with sweat and grime and mistreatment.  Joe’s hair and skin smell of lingering chemicals.  He savours of ozone and blood and exertion, and Nicky couldn’t care less about any of it.  Underneath the metal and chemicals it’s just Joe.  The smell of him after battle is age old, so familiar that burying his face in his neck and breathing in the hot, sweaty scent of him is an instinctive reaction rooted in the depths Nicky’s hindbrain.</p><p>Joe nuzzles into him in return.  He rubs his nose against Nicky’s cheek until Nicky raises his head for a kiss.  ‘He’s an idiot,’ Joe mumbles into his mouth, more exhaustion than venom.</p><p>Nicky kisses him again before resting his forehead against Joe’s.  ‘We can’t ignore it this time,’ he says eventually.</p><p>‘Mmhm.’</p><p>‘Andy’s not going to take it well.’</p><p>Joe huffs, ‘When does she ever?’ and moves, disentangling their fingers.  He swings himself up and over, straddling Nicky’s lap, balancing easily even with his arms trapped behind him.  He leans in until they’re nose to nose.</p><p>Nicky tips his head to one side, the corners of his mouth twitching once again.  ‘Was there something, my love?’</p><p>‘Always,’ Joe says.  ‘Always with you, there’s something.  At least this way I don’t have to stand on my toes,’ he adds, then he sets his mouth against Nicky’s mouth, their eternal opposition.</p><p>Nicky allows himself the luxury of temporary, Joe-induced oblivion.  Until the car stops and there is Copley and mass stupidity to be endured, it’s enough.</p>
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